She relaxed back on her lumpy seat and smiled to herself. She really needed to be home, back in the real world. This Christmas was going to be perfect.

Chapter Thirty-One

Dunfermline, late December 1936

George was there, waiting for her. He looked well and pleased to see her, fussing around, collecting her case and helping her into his car. The night was cold and a frost was starting to rime the dark pavements. The heavens were clear and the stars glinted above them as they drove to her family home.

‘Oh, George,’ she breathed, turning to look at his familiar profile – hair brushed straight back off his forehead, his eyes on the road, his moustache clipped neatly. ‘I have missed you.’

‘Have you?’ He smiled. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’

Christmas with her mother, stepfather and George had been the most joyful Marion could remember. Her parents had kept to their promise not to invite the neighbours round, as they would inevitably want all the gossip surrounding the abdication.

‘I cannot say anything,’ she’d told them all.

George took her on long walks and out for pub lunches and suppers. His work in the bank in Aberdeen was going well, and he hoped that he would be coming to London more often by the spring.

He grinned. ‘I might get there for the coronation.’

‘Could you? That would be marvellous.’ Marion’s heart lifted. ‘I don’t know if I could meet you on the day, though. I will be needed.’

A small frown creased his eyebrows.

‘I’m sorry.’ She reached for his hand. ‘It won’t be forever.’

That was the only moment where the atmosphere between them cooled, and it passed very quickly.

‘Marion?’

‘Yes, George?’

‘New Year’s Eve.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you believe it’s a year since the last one?’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I can. They tend to come round roughly every 365 days.’

‘You know what I mean.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Last year was so much fun. Shall we do it again?’

She gave him a look of such tenderness. ‘Yes please. I should love it.’

She wore last year’s eau de nil silk, but with some alterations.

‘You’ve lost more weight, dear.’ Her mother tutted with a mouth full of pins as she took in the extra fabric at Marion’s waist and hips. ‘I have a piece of pink velvet I think might look nice with this – dusty pink, it’s called. I could make it in to a stole if you like it? Hide your bony shoulders.’

Marion took a calming breath.

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

‘You going to the same place as last year? The Glen Mule, was it?’

‘Yes.’

‘My, but he looked charming in his kilt, didn’t he? I wonder if he’ll be bringing you a corsage again.’

‘Mmm.’

‘And do you think you should wear heels? Only, you are quite a bit taller than him.’

Why did her mother always find something about Marion to criticize? ‘Only a bit taller,’ Marion muttered.